


Trolls and Spies and Everything Nice

by lightsinside



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Emotionally Constipated Character, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Epic Friendship, Everyone Is Gay, Explicit Language, F/M, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Iorveth appears in the 6th and he's here to stay, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Multi, Sass, Slow Burn, Sorry Not Sorry, Teleportation, Unreliable Narrator, What Have I Done, iorveth is a bitch but not too much, ish, love ya troll, modern character in flotsam, not triss friendly, not troll smut lol, only adds to MC problems, so much sass, they just don't know it, trolls are underappreciated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:47:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 18,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25884568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightsinside/pseuds/lightsinside
Summary: “Human want vodka?”Len shrieked.It is the making of an epic friendship---Len's been fangirling over the witcher for years now, but when he finally gets his wish, it is the shittiest time possible.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Iorveth, Iorveth (The Witcher)/Original Character(s), Iorveth (The Witcher)/Original Male Character(s), Original Male Character & Troll(s)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

“I wonder what he thought would happen?”

splash

“Is there some unwritten rule that you can fuck anyone as long as they are from the same family and I just didn’t get the memo? Maybe my confusion was _unwarranted_.”

splash

“Funnily enough, I am not even really angry about the cheating bit, but at the sheer stupidity of fucking my sister in MY flat. Like, how did he think it would swing with me. Mic’s idiotism – that’s what infuriates me the most.”

splash

“Nah, don’t give me that look. I know it’s not the usual reaction after losing a years-long relationship.”

the painted rock keeps silent

splash

“Eh, maybe he just wanted to end that thing between us after all," the echo from the low chuckle reverberates from the water, inappropriately cheerful. “He even said he wasn’t really gay if you can believe i--”

OOOOOOOFF

And just like that, ironically enough, he is ejected from his extremely comfy (not) and very safe spot. Like every pebble he threw this evening Len drops down and into the muddy water - the splash is undeniably bigger, though.

Probably karma.

Soaking wet and rubbing his sore butt, the man tries very hard to not think about what he gulped down with that water. In the effort to distract himself of the new and far from pleasant circumstances Len idly starts looking around. The shadow of a derelict bridge swallows most of the surroundings - not the most comforting thought. 

As if summoned by his thoughts the darkness shudders spitting out...something. 

“Human want vodka?”

Len shrieks.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Len goes from squatting by the lavatory to gay-scanning headhunters because why not

“Listen, I know you don’t sell skooma to newbies, relax. I don’t need any," Len smiles crookedly, wiping blood off of his face. “I only need your head.”

Which, upon reflection, was probably not the best line to start a lucrative and mutually beneficial relationship with a professional head hunter… but hey, programmers just have to be socially awkward. 

They are too cool otherwise.

Right.

Which is how he happens to be squatting in the darkest part of peskily well-lit fish village. 

Judging from the smell, Len would definitely not want to introduce light to that particular corner. 

Ergh.

The fellow with a look of a life-term convict about him is not as accommodating as Len would’ve hoped but thankfully he agreed to a trade…of sorts. One Len is uniquely equipped to deal with – with his gay radar. 

Sometimes Len is not sure whether his life is a comedy or a badly-written melodrama. 

******

“My, if it isn’t the champion of the evening," Len smirks enticingly lowering himself on the barstool.

CLANG

Len grabs wooden surface before him franticly all the while wobbling on the crippled furniture.

Dmitri spares him one evaluating look and returns to his drink apparently finding him lacking.

His mouth twitches.

“I don’t beat children. Get lost," man grumbles in a surprisingly nice voice and Len huffs a laugh. So original – never heard this one.

Len doesn’t look like a baby, thank you very much. 

“Luckily, I am neither a child nor here for a…beating," the man keeps his voice low waiting for the fighter to lean closer. Which he doesn’t. Cackling quietly Len wonders if the stench from his earlier exploits is as staggering as he thinks it is. 

He was beauty, he was grace, he was stink punching you in the face. 

“Ah. And what it is you are after, then?” there’s something vaguely alarming in his manner of speech – careful, calculating even. 

“Depends on what’s on offer tonight," Dmitri quirks a scarred eyebrow, giving the other man a sidelong look. For someone in tight leather pants and shaved chest on full display, he is rather stoic. 

“Ready to take whatever is offered, are you?” now, they are moving somewhere…please, don’t be a ditch.

“Hardly. I always liked special selection best," Len feels apprising eyes on himself and turns head obligingly.

The loud bar doesn’t make for a comfortable place for a private conversation but well, it's easier to get out of, if his plan backfires.

“Who are you?” Dmitri’s eyes are an almost physical weight on Len’s. Pretty.

“Who are we all? And does it matter?” Len attempts his best smouldering gaze hoping he doesn't look constipated. 

Dmitri snorts shaking his head. 

“Another philosopher, great.”

“Another? I am hurt," Len gasps in mock offence, feeling impatience surge through him. Is it time already?

“There this new bard. Said to be travelling through," mercenary’s smirk turns sharp freezing Len’s blood in his veins. Dandelion.

“Said to?”

He shrugs with an air of finality tired of their positively stimulating conversation. 

Len got what he came here to know anyway. Kinda. Semi-sure is better than nothing, right?

Bidding goodbyes is always a bit awkward for Len. But he manages. This time even without attempting effective public suicide by offering his number. Small miracles. 

Len swooshes down the narrow corridor on stiff legs. Those stools are torture devices for sure. 

Finding the right henchman in the city full of identical thugs proves easier than expected. The sharp yank on Len’s hair followed by bodily dragging him into a dark alley helps too.


	3. Chapter 3

“No, you can’t have my hair. Grow yours, asshole.”

squish

“You should find someone else to tug at their braids, you know. Someone _with_ braids.”

It says something about Flotsam that none of the guards really pays attention – and there’s no way they missed Len’s screeches. 

A stubby dwarf with a tasteless scarf nervously looks in their direction, clenching fists, but stays where he is. Len gives him a nod of what he hopes is reassurance. No need to drag him into this.

Maybe it is _how_ he screams not _what_ \- annoyance is not the usual reaction to attempted rape or robbery after all. But hell, there was enough mud on his person as it was. 

“I am not greedy, leave the mud where it belongs.”

He is totally charging this jerk extra for a bath.

“You guys really have an unhealthy attitude towards bondage – it HAS TO BE CONSENSUAL LETMEG-”

MMMmMMm

“Shuddup!” comes an angry whisper in his ear. “You were not supposed to go all chummy with Dim! You had to just check!”

Len’s cackle gets muffled by mercenary’s hand, and its owner finally lets go with a faint look of disgust barely visible in the dark.

Which is just unfair – Len’s face is, erm was at least clean. 

He feels bile rising and swallows quickly. Ew. Better not go there.

“How else was I going to check? I don’t actually have gay radar!” he prays for patience seeing how realisation finally dawns at the possessive wanna-be boyfriend.

The mercenary grumbles, going as far as to dust Len’s leather jacket apologetically – leaving streaks of grease. 

Great.

“Okay, that’s enough.”

“What did he say?”

“If tight pants and the brooding act wasn’t enough – yes, yes, relax. He is down. Go ahead, I believe in you.” 

“Really?”

“Don’t send wedding invite," Len chuckles seeing how his face brightens. “I’ll probably be dead by then, anyway.”

“Wha?”

“The map. I’ve done what you asked. The troll. Where’s she?”

“Ah, right," rustling of paper. “Here.”

Len takes the proffered sketch with both hands, praying the drop place is not far.

He groans.

*****

Ma did use to say he won’t live till thirty, bless her soul.

So, when he sees bald man dragging another into the pissed alley, Ferren doesn’t run as he should. Something about the scene strikes him as especially odd. 

But it looks like his intervention will not be needed today. The unfamiliar boy seems to have everything well in hand and Fer sighs, relaxing a bit. He isn’t much of a fighter. 

Night in Flotsam is never really peaceful, never quiet. Not with the brothel in the middle of it. So, Ferren doesn’t notice he isn’t alone in his curiosity until turning to leave. 

The dwarf yelps, jumping a good couple of feet backwards and colliding with his stand.

“The _fuck_?”

“No need for formalities. You can call me Dmitri," the scarred man sounds faintly amused if not looks it. 

“Right. I’ll be going, mate. Have a pleasant evening," unsure why, the dwarf flees, almost missing the reply.

“Of that, I have no doubts.”  
  
*****  
“By now I am probably a _running_ joke," Len pants. “If strolling in nature is truly good for health, my lungs should be magically cured with the amount of cross-country running I do.”

thumpthumpthump

“But hey, at least pointy-eared rodents are having fun. Maybe," Len squints into the surrounding greenery, sceptical. “I need my troll. Where is my troll when I need him?”

thumpthumpthump

“Express pick up service would be a nice touch, Barth, like right now.” 

pantpantpant

“I hope you are sober or SO HELP ME.”

“BARTH! BARTH I FOUND HER!”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which elfiness increases

Apparently, riding astride a hangover troll through a forest full of traps is an idea even worse than trying to swim across Pontar on whores – who would’ve thought. 

Len needs to remember to give Cedric shit for that. 

“Can you not breath in my direction? I get drunk just by the smell,” Len whines, desperately trying to read the soaked mess that is their map. Almost complete darkness doesn’t help much.

“Lightweight,” the man startles and looks up so fast something audibly snaps in his neck.

“Excuse you?” Len squints at the troll in disbelief, palming hurt place. “Mate, if the first coherent thought you spew at me in 24 hours is an insult, you could at least look me in the eye. Own it, man.”

The troll in question only grunts, tearing endrega pod with a wet crunch.

“Gross... But nutritious, I guess. Seeing how embryos have to have everything they need to grow right there… How long does it take, I wonder? Is the cocoon like an egg or disturbing it doesn’t affect the process at all? Is there a way to accelerate it? Geralt would be positively delighted if that’s the case. Though,” Len winces, “can’t imagine he’d like to grow endregas at the vineyard – or kill babies for that matter. Home-breeding is so much like slavery,” Len stares at the troll questioningly. 

Barth blinks.

“Jesus, I need caffeine.”

Something hits the back of Len’s head with a dull thud, and he yelps, instantly overcome with panic. THAT’S WHY HE HATES TREES.

“Ew. Ew. Ew. Oh my god ohmygod, please don’t be a spider, don’t be a spider. Good thoughts. Don’t think about it. DON’T THINK.”

Needless to say, jumping around does nothing to help with checking for bugs.

“No wonder you prefer trolls for company, seeing how similar you are.”

Len stops, awkwardly mid-swing and slowly drags his eyes up. 

And up. 

Nothing. Huh. 

Whatever.

“Thanks, they are amazing! Better than people, for sure,” Len feels a bit silly grinning at the darkness but hey, he had a long day. The least he could do is be nice to whatever voyeur that stumbled across them. Maybe they are incorporeal.

“Hmph.”

“Okay, not much of a talker. A pity, really. Barth here is a bit shy too, and you have a nice voice.”

“Lenny?” the troll perks up at his name and Len shushes him gently. 

“Eat up, big guy. We’ll need to move out soon.”

“Hm. Without a body and consequently oral organs how exactly the sound is produced by incorporeals? Magic, obviously it’s magic. But how is it chosen? Could they even change their voices? It’s like, the first impression basis for someone with literally no-,” Len stops abruptly, remembering. Right, he is the one whose first impression is on display.

“Ahem. Sorry, that was rude. What’s up?” Len blinks in the pause. Barth burps.

“Sky,” comes a serious, if a bit wry reply. The owner of the voice jumps onto the ground with barely a sound.

Len, true to the form, shrieks.

*****

“Why does everyone insist on giving me a heart attack? People here treat hurt fingers with a saw, I don’t need them near my internal organs.”

“You are as skittish as a pixie - don’t go blaming people for that,” comes a lazy rebuttal and Len winces. He doesn’t need that particular comparison to stick. 

“Shuddup and dig, Seherim. You are not here to look pretty.” 

“I can multitask,” pirate man smirks mischievously and Len can’t hold a snort.

“Please do.”

The misconception about mercenaries being dim should be corrected once and for all. It’s a ruthless business that demands at least some degree of cunning, and Dimitri is more than that – he is an asshole.

Getting a key to the cell with a she-troll is an easy one. Getting to the cell itself – that’s where the problem lies. 

Admittedly, putting a troll in baths is ironic. But. _Elven_ baths. 

God only knows how he sneaked four-something meters of a loud and charmingly smelly female under Iorveth’s nose. Len is grudgingly impressed.

Still, drowning in rain-softened soil and his own sweat does nothing for his mood. 

The freshness of his emo recruit doesn’t help much. Seriously, why elves get pointy ears _and_ anime eyes but no sweat glands? 

“Life is unfair,” Seherim sing-songs under Len’s glare.

“You have no business reading my mind.”

“I doubt _my_ mind would stay the same, if I did. You have the same look as Anezka when she whines about Cedric,” the elf explains, and then smirks leaning in to whisper conspiratorially. “He cheats at dice.”

“I am not whining,” Len’s keening is obnoxiously loud, and then, “…Good to know.”

The only thing that makes everything bearable is cool night air. Still, what he wouldn’t give for Aard. 

*****

“It’s so dark in here.”

_tap tap tap_

“Quiet. Hear that?”

“Sounds like water.”

“Bo near,” _sniff_. “Humans.”

“Shit.”

“Indeed.”

Len worries he will overheat with how fast his mind works. Suddenly, he brightens.

Seherim gives him a wary look, and Len merrily ignores it. 

“Barth, I need you to do as I say,” he whispers hurriedly. “Will you do that for me?”

Something clangs further inside. 

“Bo. Safe,” Barth nods reluctantly. Len returns the gesture, hoping it comes off as assured and not manic.


	5. Chapter 5

tap tap 

Len runs his fingers through lush greenery covering brick walls. Cool and velvety to the touch it soothes some of his nerves. At least for a time. 

The place itself is a beauty. Modern graphics look like a child’s drawing in comparison. But then, what came first – an egg, or a chicken? Len isn’t sure it matters. 

tap

Low voices distract Len from his ruminations. Probably for the best.

“…come...been here all day…” somewhat squeaky but clearly masculine voice needles. 

“Boss says…we…how high,” comes a reply in a monotonous baritone. 

“…you stop repeating…says?..different!”

Len moves carefully, trying to hold giggles as he lowers himself into a half-crouch. It worked in Skyrim, right?

“Where’s he…? Dmitri said he…at noon.”

tap tap 

“Nekkers. Ghouls. Endregas. Trolls,” Len is silently smug. The Monotonous Man makes a considering noise. “Loredo.” 

“Fair.”

Len could hear their shuffling much better now. The only barrier between them is the wall of the same velvety ivy that decorated the walls. Len smiles. Pretty _and_ useful.

“What is it with you?”

“This dripping is driving me mad.”

“Madder?”

“Shut up.”

tap 

Len’s fingertips tingle in excitement and nerves. Damnable performance anxiety. 

He shuffles closer until there’s a clear view of the mercenaries. There’re two, and, judging by the sounds, they are the only ones in the whole place. Unaware victims of the voyeur extraordinaire are in the spacious chamber that in the past served as –- who the hell knows. As a coliseum or something. Len doesn’t know much about elves of the past but what he knows doesn’t suggest ‘down-to-earth’ was a common trait among them. 

tap tap

Distracting himself with immediate irritants works only for so long, and as soon as Len sees in what state they hold Bo, something in him snaps. Hands and feet shackled, chains hug her entire body, covering long, but seemingly shallow gashes on her torso. Bo’s head is tellingly untouched. 

His blood boils.

“Almost there,” he mutters to himself, creeping to the awning with measured steps. His knee squeaks like a badly-oiled door. Len winces, moving that leg farther. 

He should’ve known better.

WHAM

“Wha-?”

“Oi!”

“Ouch. At least it wasn’t far. Geez. Should they be so hard?” Barth would be proud just how little whining he does after cushioning his free fall with stones. 

Len climbs to his feet, simultaneously pulling torn leaves off of his face, and gives flabbergasted men a friendly, if a bit too wide, grin, “’Sup, gents?” 

“Where did you come from?” sounds at the same time as “Who the hell are you?” and Len huffs, amused.

“What, not going to offer me tea first?” he deflects, trying to judge the distance to the cell with Bo.

At the sound of his voice, the troll perks up, “Lenny?”

His grin turns sharp. 

Contrary to the evidence of their initial reaction, the mercenaries are not stupid. They don’t waste time, not even to glance at each other. 

“Professionals,” Len nods in approval. He can appreciate a sensible approach, even from those assholes.

They split, stances loose but ready. Len has no apparent weapons. He doesn’t need them.

Len opens his mouth to speak.

And then everything promptly goes to hell.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Calling their plan shaky would be a severe understatement so, some degree of alterations was predictable. 
> 
> Still, the resulting Bedlam is positively astounding.

Calling their plan shaky would be a severe understatement so, some degree of alterations was predictable. 

Still, the resulting shitshow is positively astounding.

Not having started, Len interrupts his impromptu speech about virtues of Christianism to cheer when Barth crash-lands in an explosion of rocks. 

“Barth!” Bo growls as if to reprimand him for the noise. Len huffs a laugh. She will be fine.

The unstable patch of the ceiling was where promised and the better half of the mercenaries gets knocked out right away, but the other isn’t so lucky. 

The smell would haunt Len for a very long time.

“Barth! Bo! Now!” the troll grumbles opening his palms reluctantly and what left of the body slips to the floor with a heavy thud. Len cringes. “We really shouldn’t overstay our welcome. Why the hell it’s so warm in here?”

“Barth open irons,” Len sees two heavy locks, sturdy chain coated in greenish liquid and feels a shiver run down his spine. 

“Don’t. I am ready to bet my firstborn on that being poisonous. Bo, are you in pain?” he eyes the gushes down her torso, “Okay, sorry, stupid question. Do chains burn?”

Bo nods.

“Voice hurts,” Len feels a wave of admiration, wondering if she tried to bite through the chain. 

“Fucking assholes. It’s probably ogroid oil,” Len frowns. “Where did they get the recipe?” 

Clearly irritated, the troll throws arms in the air – barely missing human’s face. Bo calls him an idiot. Len suppresses hysterical laughter.

“That’s fine, big guy. Should be the key somewhere.”

“Hopefully, it’s not too bloody,” he mutters to himself, looming over a prone breathing body.

“Chiiicken, chicken, chicken,” Len calls, idly scratching his arm. He really needs a bath – the whole day of running around did nothing for his personal hygiene. 

The mercenary groans, making some sadistic part of Len’s mind giggle delightedly. 

Mother would be so happy to be proved right. 

“Welcome to the world of the living, asshole,” he shifts the biggest rock from the mercenary’s abdomen keeping his voice cheerful. “Right now, it’s a demo-version. Trial period lasts 40 seconds. To purchase the full, you have to submit evidence of your good-will, since the trial of good character you failed already,” getting a confused and slightly disoriented look in return, Len coos. “Where’s the key to the cage, sweetheart?”

The mercenary looks around, blinking rapidly. Sees the troll. Counts two. Rubs his eyes. Blanches.

trump

Len couldn’t hold evil cackle even if tried. He doesn’t.

The mercenary startles.

“Well?” his unwilling companion frowns, and, probably deciding it just doesn’t worth it, unwinds a leather cord from his neck. 

whoosh

“Wonderful.”

squeak 

He leaves the battered man to lay there and jogs to the cell. The hinges squeak, making Len’s headache flare in revenge. 

Bo winces, stepping out of the last chain and relaxes visibly. 

Len has to stand on his tiptoes to reach for the collar but the resulting click is so satisfying it’s worth any discomfort. He wipes hands at the mercenary’s cotton shirt - happily ignoring indignant scoff.

whoosh

“Here you go. That was the last one. The asshole extraordinaire will have to come with us,” Len talks as he picks the man up – with difficulty, “Ohmygod, I’ll let Bo make soup from you if you don’t stop squirming – your leg is broken anyway,” Barth lets out an interested sound, and the mercenary freezes, “We’ll have to co-”

“You are going nowhere, dh’oine,” Len can’t help it, he groans. There’s only one man cocky enough to threaten a friend of trolls. He turns, feeling smile tugging at his lips on its own volition.

“You.”

“Me.”


	7. Chapter 7

Bo hums, stepping before him protectively. Barth growls covering his side. 

Len feels liquid warmth coating his insides at the display.

Iorveth mutters something about like attracting the like but does lower his bow. Len pats Bo on the back with his free hand in silent reassurance and shifts his hold on the mercenary.

“Hello, Iorveth. How have you been?” Len pointedly looks around. “The flowers are blooming today especially beautiful.” It’s night. He winks at the bushes.

“You stole my arachas,” the elf drawls out lazily. There’s no hostility in his voice, just a muted sort of curiosity. It’s the truth universally acknowledged that getting the Old Fox too interested is a perilous endeavour – Len’s heart beats faster at the prospect. 

“I saved your arachas,” Len corrects him evenly, ignoring whispers from the “hidden” elves. He was drunk, okay? But the idea was too good not to make it a reality.

The trolls make their equivalent of an impatient shuffle when your mom meets an old acquaintance in the supermarket, and Len snickers internally. Wait until he embarrasses them in front of their friends.

“From whom?”

“From you,” the elf gives him an amused look as if to say ‘Me? I’m harmless’. “And I had this conversation so many times in my head now that I’d really rather moved on. I am sure you are a busy elf.”

“In your head?” Iorveth rubs the bridge of his nose as if to ward off a headache. Len can sympathise. His arm starts to numb. The mercenary looks like he expects that the novelty of not having a human shit himself just by looking at Iorveth wears off any minute now. 

“It’s called conscience. Familiar with the concept?” Len’s cocky smile and subsequent response of one-eyed wonder are interrupted by a coughing fit. Hand flying to the mouth, his slight frame shakes with the force of spasms. Bo’s eyes twinkle worriedly as she stands before him - effectively blocking from Iorveth’s view. Which is good. His hand comes away bloody. The mercenary all but jumps away from him. Len quirks an eyebrow, waiting for the howl of pain. 

He doesn’t have to wait long. 

He gives Bo a grateful nod, familiar so long they understand each other on some instinctive level. Maybe that’s why he never really clicked with humans – his mother must have really been a troll. 

“I am not contagious, ya’ll, pinkie promise,” the main squirrel levels him with a measuring look and nods, making a discreet gesture. Len has a bad feeling he was one step before being shot down. He gulps through the tightness of his throat. 

The bushes rustle again and a moment later the air starts to feel…empty. Are they gone? Len’s speculating look is met with a flat one. 

Barth growls at Iorveth. “Lenny not want to speak to you,” Iorveth blithely ignores him and steps forward. One day Len wants to be as sure of himself as the elf in the face of hostile eight feet of muscles and stink. 

“On the contrary, Barth. Lenny would very much like to speak to Iorveth. But thanks,” he rubs the troll’s arm affectionately. Iorveth’s stare is like a physical weight on the side of his face. 

Len wonders if there’s still blood on his lips.

“Keep your troll on a leash, lest someone else has to do it for you,” the elf smirks, fearlessly coming closer. From that distance, it becomes obvious that the greyish tinge to his face wasn’t a trick of lighting. Len has an irrational impulse to bundle the elf up in blankets and sing a lullaby. “I have, as you know, an open position for a pet.”

“My, Iorveth, are you flirting with Barth? Don’t promise to _squirrel_ him away in front of his wife, at least,” the elf looks torn between scoffing and snorting but rolls eyes masterfully. Everyone loves a good pun, you cannot convince Len otherwise.

“That, or maybe I was talking about you, dh’oine,” which is not something Len would be opposed to, in different circumstances. He never got to see squirrels’ den in the game. 

“It feels so good to have one’s attentions returned,” he replies with a grin. “But to the business at hand. Barth, take Bo home. I’ll be there as soon as possible,” he hopes that projecting enough urgency will get Barth moving.

The troll starts protesting half-heartedly, but clearly, seeing his mate hurt makes him impatient to scurry and help. Len knows the feeling. “Go. I’ll find something to help with the pain. Give her…half of that potion I drink sometimes.”

“Vodka?”

“No, Barth. No alcohol, hear me? You two, get your bums moving.”

“Hmpf. Fine,” Bo sends Iorveth a knowing grin (or as close to it as possible for a troll) – it comes off as vaguely intimidating. Len tries to project ‘don’t embarrass me in front of my new friend’ vibe, unsure if successful.

Electing to stand there like a well-coloured statue, Iorveth keeps a close eye at the retreating trolls but doesn’t interfere. Len scratches his cheek and fights his innate awkwardness.

“This place is sure popular today, wouldn’t you say? Almost makes me nostalgic for the bath days we had back home,” Iorveth shifts almost imperceptively turning his piercing gaze on a new target. Len clears his throat.

“It must have been a very long time indeed,” Len freezes – mouth open unattractively until he gets that Iorveth talks about bathing and his overall state of dirty. He snorts.

“You could just say I smell. I know I do,” the human perks up, “Do elves have heightened sense of smell?”

“We do. And yours is quite staggering.”

“Yeah, yeah. Diva,” he mutters. “Anyway, I am tired and you look goddamn awful, so why don’t we start our little private Q&A and get some sleep, eh?” Iorveth’s eyebrow disappears under the famed red cloth. Len snickers but does his best to collect himself.

“Let’s set some ground rules – easy to follow and saves lots of time,” it speaks volumes about elf’s exhaustion that he doesn’t argue – or stab him. “We’ll take turns asking questions. No lying allowed. If you don’t want to or can’t answer a question - just say so. Neither of us wants to follow up false information, right?” Iorveth nods, Len doesn’t even try to hide his surprise. So, logic is a go. 

“Sensible. Surprisingly so.”

“You’ll find me very sensible indeed. Go on, ask.” 

“What are you doing here?” which is, fair enough – not a usual place for sightseeing.

“The place is beautiful. Also, my friend got kidnapped and held hostage, so,” Iorveth nods. Len has a gnawing feeling it’s all just a test. He hates tests.

“The troll.”

“Yes,” the challenge in his voice is evident. Iorveth smirks. “What are you doing here?”, he mirrors, “Unless you are the buyer…in which case I’ll be really disappointed. And furious – can’t rule that one out, no sir.”

“However would I live with your disappointment,” the elf snarks. “We are not dh’oine. Scoia'tael do not dabble in sentient being trafficking. As to why we were here. Head hunters have no business infesting elvish ruins – we came to rectify that,” mesmerised, Len stares at the scarred cheek stretching by a sharp smile. 

Iorveth angles his face away slightly, clearing his throat.

“Why did you steal my arachas?” he just won’t let it go, will he?

“Because you would get him killed. Now he is free to roam the wilds and eat nekkers as he pleases,” Len rubs pins and needles from his palm, thinking if he wants to risk it, but the opportunity is just too good. “The chain was coated in ogroid oil. Know anyone with good knowledge of poisons and a unique ability to make a troll follow them willingly and with as little fuss as you please,” it doesn't come out quite like a question. 

Iorveth’s eye narrows, accentuating frankly alarming shade under it.

“If you are implying…”

“I imply nothing. Just wondering if you know someone. I still need the antitoxin.”

Iorveth hums. Len's head feels kind of foggy. Probably exhaustion.

“I have something that could help,” not believing his luck (nor Iorveth), Len crosses his arms on his chest.

“And what do you want in return?” the elf smirks, making a show of throwing the vial up a bit as if weighing its worth.

“A favour.”

“What kind of favour?”

“Whatever I choose whenever I choose.”

That's bold. Does Len look that desperate? 

“...You look like someone who commits homicide willingly and with pleasure, so I’m guessing you won’t use me for a hit on someone. Not in the way I would oppose, anyway. Deal,” vaguely feeling as if he just sold his soul, Len accepts a vial of swirling white liquid. “Pretty.” 

All in all, a successful transaction. Len waits for the other shoe to drop.

It seems, the universe is listening, because next second his vision spins a bit and Len staggers forward pulled by an invisible force. “No deals with the Devil without good old fashioned fainting I-”

He crumples to the floor.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> boys being confused

“Not everything you like is worth touching, dh’oine.”

“I feel there’s some joke about deceiving appearances, which I’m going to ignore ‘cause severe pain and possible asphyxiation don’t mix well with philosophical debates. But I heard your ancient and suffering soul, man.”

Seherim snorts. 

Len wakes to the worried face of Seherim and a smug look on Iorveth’s – frankly alarming combination. Later he discovers that the pretty plants he was practically fondling for forty minutes straight are some equivalent of poisonous ivy he is also allergic to. His luck should be a thing of legends at this point.

“He is delirious,” it isn’t aimed at Len. 

There’s some shuffling, and then Seherim holds out water from where he is crouching by Len’s side.

“Nah, it’s his usual mode. Worry not,” raised eyebrow is the only reply he gets. 

“I am right ’ere, emo b-“

cough cough

“Len? What’s wrong?”

cough

“Besides my face?” Len stretches swollen lips in a smirk. Seherim winces sympathetically. He thinks fast. “It’s dusty in here. Really, for someone so obsess- appreciative of relics of the past, your care for the place is shit,” Iorveth looks unconvinced. Len ignores him - which is quickly becoming a habit. 

“Be nice,” Seherim rumbles checking his temperature. 

“Sorry,” the man visibly perks up. “Here, let me up.”

Seherim silently takes the proffered hand and pulls him up supporting by the waist. 

“Thanks,” Len looks around, still a bit woozy, and then, “You can let go now.” 

Seherim ignores him, basically dragging weakened body to the exit. 

“I am not a cripple, Seherim. Wait. Where’s the mercenary?” Len looks back at Iorveth who – who is less than two feet behind. At the question his expression shutters. Len's eyes narrow.

“Dead.”

“What?” he expected “escaped” or “I let him go” but not, not that. Len looks around, finding no one. “I left you with a perfectly breathing body for _five minutes!_ Don’t get me wrong, if the choice was between me and him I am quite pleased the asshole pulled the short-”

“He must have been injured more than you thought. Probably internal bleeding,” Len turns to Seherim sharply, not missing the speculative look emo boy throws Iorveth’s way.

“That’s what you think?” 

“Yes.”

Len doesn’t believe him. “Whatever. Guess, that settles the problem with Dmitri – for now. I have a feeling I am going to hear from him soon. Hopefully, it would be about wedding,” he ignores confused looks thrown his way. 

The man checks the vial, relieved beyond belief to find it undamaged. Prying elf’s hand from his side made harder with sausages instead of fingers but he manages. 

“I need to get to my trolls. Hope you, boys, can manage without me.”

Yes, he is still annoyed at their conspiratorial looks. Being excluded is never fun. 

“You need treatment,” Iorveth says – seemingly surprising even himself. Len mellows somewhat.

“I am not the only one,” he ponders something. “Will take a sip or two of this,” he jingles the vial, “should be potent enough.”

"You know a lot about these potions," Iorveth states.

"Your _question_?" 

Iorveth shakes his head slowly. "Not yet."

And with that ominous response, he disappears into the forest.

"That was anti-climatic," Len mutters.

"Quite."


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Len tumbles through life as if making it his goal to step on as many toes as possible.
> 
> Dmitri collects them.

He does hear from Dmitri not long after that. Len would have been ridiculously proud for correctly predicting that move if he wasn't too busy trying to keep from vomiting after being clubbed to the head. 

Which is, not cool.

Fortunately for Dmitri, one-eyed emo, who tagged along initially, left soon after delivering Len to his trolls, and Len was in no condition to even walk briskly so. Dmitri's goons got a drop on him easily, embarrassingly so.

Lying on the brick floor, Len idly wonders just how annoyed Iorveth will be for not getting that favour, and giggles.

Probably concussion. Yay.

Well, at least he managed to get that antitoxin to Bo, so his soul isn't sold uselessly.

SCREECH

Len startles at the harsh noise.

"I hope your quarters are to your liking," Dmitri stands in the doorframe, warm light from torches glistening on his bald scalp. 

Len squints.

"And 'ow you are going to- to say they better be, 'cause I'll be staying here awhile," Len slurs, tongue heavy and awkward in his mouth. "Like the most stereotypical kidnapper 'ere is."

Dmitri smirks. "Not as long as you think. Shorter than you'd like."

Len swallows his first and decidedly inappropriate response - which is laughter. Not like he can scare Len with death when his every living moment is a torture.

But Dmitri is trying to do _something_ , and, if nothing else, Len is curious. "You must know I'm not a good slave material, nor exactly good for organ harvesting- do you even do organ harvesting? Pro- probably just for higher vampires or alchemists or- or something," Len rambles eliciting a laugh from the mercenary.

"What?"

"You always put on a brave face. All of you. But I see your panicked breathing, unfocused eyes. You do not fool me."

Len rolls his eyes, instantly regretting it. "Sorry to ruin your moment, Sherlock, but it's called con- concussion. Check with the textbook, if you know how to read, that is. Happens when you club someone on the head with heavy thingies," Len forces through tight throat, suppressing cough. 

The mercenary grinds his teeth audibly, Len winces. "They _what_." 

Huh. 

"Not exactly your orders, were they?" Dmitri straightens.

"Perhaps, perhaps not. Definitely not your concern," the mercenary retorts with a straight face. Len is suddenly overcome with the desire to smash it in. 

Caffeine-free life sucks.

"You are holding me hostage, I'd say it's very much my concern," not to mention a repeat. The asshole is going to pay for what he did to Bo, one way or the other.

"Hostage?" Dmitri rolls the word like as if tasting it. "More like a temporary guest."

"I feel so welcomed," he snarks in response feeling cold seep in his hands where they're pressed to the stone. The guy is creepier and creepier by the minute.

Dmitri steps into the cell crouching before Len. "Oh, Lenny, you will," he promises, touching the side of Len's face with care. Len's stomach rolls. 

"At least I was right about you, DimDam," a pity the maniac didn't want to settle for a perfectly willing partner, though. He sure hopes the poor sod isn't too heartbroken.

"You will find me full of surprises still."

"Can't wait to see what strange and wonderful things you have prepared for me. Do those include a pillow? A mattress maybe? I wouldn't say no to a bottle of wine." 

Dmitri just laughs. Pleasantly low rumbling sound sends chills down his back. 

The mercenary takes both of his arms, lifting Len effortlessly. The man barely suppresses a flinch. "If you are good."

It's Len's turn to laugh. "I find this notion ludicrous," he says loftily, moving to stand on his own. Dmitri lets him.

"I'm starting to like you."

"Your taste is shit."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all who reads, leaves comments and kudos! It makes my dark soul sing in delight ;3


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They move to a more picturesque setting. Len breaks crockery.

"No?" Dmitri looks at him with an almost staggering amount of confusion. Totally unwarranted, too.

"No."

"Why?"

"Because you want it, obviously," Len gives him a wry smile pushing the jug away. He wouldn't refuse alcohol for personal reasons, but that…solution is as likely to kill him as to help with the splitting headache he's been enjoying for _hours_. 

The mercenary just rolls his eyes.

They sit in what you can generously call a living room, but instead of mundane sofas and coffee tables are slabs of stone and dirty rags. 

In short, it's a cave.

"It'll help with your head, though you'll need some more rest," Dmitri shifts closer. Leather pants squeak in protest. 

Len puts some more space between them, as casually as he can with every movement sending sharp jolts of pain straight to the back of his head.

"So caring, aren't you," he wets his throat. "I bet you'll make a great boyfriend. Sadly, I prefer to spice up my relationships with something other than emotional rollercoaster that comes with all kidnappings and resulting concussions."

"Who said anything about relationships, sweetheart?" Dmitri holds out his waterskin. "Drink some water, at least. Your concussion is mild, shouldn't take long to heal."

Len squints at the water, back at the mercenary. 

Dmitri's eyes gleam. 

"I am not thirsty," he says resolutely. "And if I was - no need to trouble you - there's a perfectly clean waterfall two feet away masquerading as a door," Len jerks a thumb behind his back, to highlight the point. "Which is, let me commend you, very romantic as far as kidnappings go. Were you planning to roast some drowners for dinner? Or nekkers are more suitable for your palette?"

The pain from the slap doesn't register at first. " _Will you stop saying that?_ " the mercenary looks instantly apologetic. 

Shit. That deteriorated fast. His cheek burns. "Big words make you nervous, honey?"

Dmitri opens his mouth to answer when his posture stiffens further.

splash

_closer_

splashsplashsplash

Something lets out a gurgling noise. Len laughs. 

"After everything, I am going to die eaten by a drowner."

Dmitri shushes him with a look. Or tries to, anyway.

He unclips a crossbow from his back, moving with more grace than you'd expect from someone of his bulk. The quiet whisper of leather cuts through the silence. Aerodynamic head reflects sunshine. 

He takes aim. Shoots. 

And falls forward. 

Satisfied, Len dusts off his hands from small pieces of glass, broken jug at his feet.

The second drowner blinks. 

" _Shit._ " 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you asked Len to describe his life in one word he'd choose clusterfuck
> 
> Elves are high

The drowner looks as perplexed as Len feels, but in no way as amused.

Peacefully drifting mercenary thumps his leg. Len ponders leaving him there. 

_sigh_

"That bleeding heart will get me killed," he squints at the drowner. The monster swallows hungrily. "Sooner, rather than later."

Len groans and takes off in the opposite direction, the drowner hot on his heels. Joke's on him, though – Len knows the forest better than the back of his hand. 

It turns out Cedric's traps are good for something other than tickling Barth's toes. Namely, shutting talkative undead up. For good. How could this forest smell so fresh, when guts line up its floor is beyond his understanding. 

Len is still going to give the elf shit for them. If he lives long enough, that is.

He doubles back to the pond, carefully watching his step. 

"You've got to be kidding me," Dmitri sits by the cave entrance blinking at the sky. The sun shimmers off the clear water prettily where it's not stained by Dmitri's blood. 

At the sound of Len's voice, the man startles. 

"What?" he slurs, before clearing his throat. "Who are you?"

"What a clusterfuck."

*****  
"No," Len finds himself answering before thinking, not particularly unusual too. "No, we are not together," _eh, why the hell not_ , he thinks, "and you said there's someone from your company you liked. I am not sure who, though – probably will see when you see him."

"Ah," Dmitri nods, thoughtful. " You say, I am a swordsman."

"Yes, and a damn good one. You tried to protect me from drowners, but it all happened so suddenly…"

Dmitri nods again, more confidently. "And I would do that again," greenish eyes stare at Len with a flattering intensity – a pity he tried to rape him.

"Yeah, well. You look like someone who does that for people," he lies through his teeth trying to ignore the pounding of his head. The amnesia is a much more graceful outcome than Len has hoped for, really. "You said you were going to Kaedwen and that your company waits you at the tavern," Len helps him up, surreptitiously checking for shards of glass and finding none. Water slushes at his ankles. "Don't forget to check that wound."

"Thank you, Lenny." 

Len finches violently, for the first time wondering if Dmitri is pretending. The mercenary blinks at him in confusion.

"You are welcome," Len makes himself to squeeze out, smiling cheerfully to cover up any discomfort. His cheek stings. "Safe travels!"

Dmitri smiles and turns to leave.

Len doesn't look away until he is well and truly gone.

*****  
Len is on his way to Seherim's, already planning to raid Anezka for painkillers when he misses his step. The bark of the tree is coarse and cool when he collides with it, scraping his hand.

"Fu-"

Something falls from the tree. Resigned, he drags his eyes upward.

"My life is one bad punchline after another," Len looks at the confused elves, the medieval equivalent of bong irredeemably shattered on the moss.

"This shit will kill you, you know?" many (wow, so many) pairs of glazed eyes focus on him with difficulty. Mad scramble insures.

"Bloede dh'oine!" 

"Daetre!"

"Aespar!"

"Noup. No aespar here, guys. I come in peace. Mellon. Er, shit. Wrong elvish," his gaze flits from one face to the other before settling on the closest elf. "Caen me a'baethe," seeing the furious blush on the youthful face, Len swears. "Caelm, evellienn! N'aen aespar a me," Len finally strings together in passable Elder speech, though he can practically see pointy ears wilt. 

Still, no shooting or stabbing follows, which is a win. 

"Not performing well under pressure, are you, dh'oine?" red-haired elf jumps down nimbly in a marvellous display of impact mitigation, assuming command of this shitshow. 

"Depends on the circumstances," Len winks flirtatiously at the smirking elf. 

Someone snickers.

"What are you doing here, human?" 

Len snorts, leaning on the nearest trunk. His head swims. "Such a popular question with you, elves. Being kidnapped, chased by a drowner. The usual."

"It _is_ Flotsam," the elf bares small white teeth in a grin, dark eyes unfocused and stance loose. Iorveth would be delighted. 

"You know it. You, boys? And girls. Enjoying yourselves?" 

The elf's eyes flit to the broken crockery. "Not anymore," he answers, disgruntled. Len hides his grin, coughing a bit.

"Right, sorry about that. It's a wonder you haven't shot me already."

"There's still time," that gets a murmur of consent. Len snorts.

"Nah, if you really wanted, I'd already been eimyr-like," he scratches his cheek absently, mourning unappreciated pun. "Anyway, what's your name, hon?"

"And you want to know it because?"

"Going to name my firstborn after you, obviously," Len huffs. 

"Merrin," the elf tilts his head, "And you?"

"Len," he holds out hand for a shake but never gets it.

"YOU- YOU STOLE CORAM!"

"Jesus fuck, _what now?_ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bloede dh'oine - fucking human  
> Daetre - behind  
> Aespar - to shoot  
> Caen me a'baethe - give me a kiss  
> Caelm, evellienn - calm down, everyone  
> N'aen aespar a me - don't shoot me  
> Dh'oine - human  
> eimyr - a hedgehog  
> Coram - a lion


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iorveth puts a boot in his mouth. 
> 
> Len takes a stance on animal rights and drug use. 
> 
> This fic is not political, I swear

"I really wish you could find out more of my multiple transgressions for at least some diversity. No, I haven't finished," Len shushes his new friend, flicking black locks out of his eyes. "I have _freed_ the arachas – which is, really, did you call him a lion? – anyway, he is not a pet, nor should he had been kept in one place, as some glorified guard dog. That was irresponsible, I don't care about possible tender feelings you harboured towards the beast," Merrin splutters in an aborted response. "You don't get to yell at me when it's _you_ who should have realised that wild creatures are not to be domesticated – they…wilt."

Len takes a breath, feeling as if every minute he spent in Flotsam he wanted to vomit from one reason or another. The place's charm, he supposes.

Everything is eerily quiet. Merrin looks horrified. Oh, boy.

"You have surprisingly strong feelings on animal care, dh'oine," the sneer in Iorveth's voice has an almost physical presence. Len feels hysterical laugher bubbling up. 

"Following me, aren't you?" he teases, not turning around. Even high, Merrin's eyes widen at the audacity. 

Iorveth snorts. "In your dreams."

"You can count on them being perverted," he throws over his shoulder cheekily. 

The elf moves so quietly he could as well be a ghost. Incredibly effective in midnight kitchen heists, Len bets.

"The question should be whether or not _you_ are following me, then," the elf rasps out derisively. A shiver runs down Len's spine. 

Merrin, it appears, doesn't even breathe watching the exchange, eyes lit up in admiration for the suicide attempt. Also, possibly wondering who Iorveth will pick as his next target.

"Iorveth," the redhead bobs his head in a deferential nod - by the looks of it, thanking all gods for the headwind. No way he could hide that distinct _smell_.

Iorveth looks at the elf with a thinly veiled amusement. Eh, it seems blown out pupils and the remains of their bong gave the hippies away, anyway. 

"Everything quiet?" he asks, standing between them. Len knows better than assume it's some admission of equality. But with Iorveth, refusal to turn his back is even flattering, in some butchered way. 

"As at the cemetery," Merrin smiles crookedly, good spirit returning.

"And here's the ghoul," Iorveth looks at the human in what one might call curiosity. Again, that cursed thing. In his experience, it brings nothing but trouble.

"Hey! I sm- look better," Len catches himself at the last second. He would've lost that one.

"By a margin," Iorveth nods in concession. 

Len sighs. His vision blurs at the edges, and he wonders if the multicoloured face he's no doubt sporting would get him a pass to a Halloween party. Probably yes. 

Having fair skin _sucks_.

"Fair," he answers finally.

Iorveth snorts and turns his attention back to the squirrels. "Return to the camp. Ciaran needs additional help," Iorveth casts an evaluating gaze over his people but doesn't comment further. "Go."

They shuffle off with much more noise than they would've usually done, though. Merrin nods in parting, eyes flitting between his commander and Len. Head spinning, the human smiles in return.

The silence that reigns after their departure is surprisingly comfortable. Iorveth looks around, eye lingering on the broken pot. Leaves whisper pleasantly. 

Ignoring low hum in his ears, Len chews on his lip in thought. Ciaran is still with them, so he still has time to prepare contingencies... and contingencies for those, too. Len is never able to sit on his ass and mind his own business. He is going to disturb as many hornet nests as he can before kicking the bucket. 

The human smiles at his own pep talk and turns attention to his present company. 

"I am honestly surprised you decided to turn a blind eye to their pastime," Len's voice cuts through the silence, too loud. The elf turns, raising an eyebrow and Len winces, instantly guilty. "Sorry, not my best day."

"I can tell," Iorveth waves off the apology, looking a bit surprised. "They are children, and gorillas' fight doesn't provide many opportunities for relaxation," he shrugs, even as his brow furrows in thought.

Len forcefully smooths out his incredulous expression at the main squirrel's casual dismissal of the recreational use of _drugs_ to something more neutral. Thinking. Are they talking about the same things, or Len is just that paranoid and uptight about the literal wartime the squirrels live in? 

"Are you serious, mate?" 

Iorveth's posture stiffens, almost defensive. "They do not use fisstech, and herbs are better than alcohol," he pointedly looks at Len's _empty_ flask. Though, saying it's empty might not win him any points.

"That's different," he says, anyway.

"Of course, it is," Iorveth nods in mock understanding, "you'll stop whe-"

"Medicinal, in a way," Len interrupts, turning away just in time to notice ticking of Iorveth's eye at being interrupted. He casually examines the bark by his head. Bugs, ew. "And I do not condone alcoholism." 

He decides to ignore the elf's disbelieving snort, idly wondering if the elf thinks about Cedric, as well. "I see your point though," Len sighs dreamily. Sweet college days. 

Iorveth opens his mouth to no doubt deliver a scathing retort when suddenly leans forward – right in Len's face. 

Instinctively, the human flinches backwards, awkwardly hitting his head on the trunk. He sees stars.

"Whoa, fuck," Len croaks out, holding his head as if it'll keep it from splitting and attempts to reign in his rolling stomach.

Feverishly hot fingers touch the side of his face, barely there. Len doesn't open his eyes.

"Iorveth. What are you doing?"

The fingers disappear. "Your face. Who's done that?"

Len blinks open his eyes in surprise. Oh, well. That'll be an interesting story to tell.

"Eh, I got myself a fan while trying to gay-proof him for his second-in-command by seduction in exchange for Bo's location," Iorveth nods, as if it makes sense. "He decided that my free time should be his alone. And concussion is just an unintended result of a shittily executed kidnapping. The poor sod realised the extend of the saying about wanting and getting well-done things. But it's okay, I clubbed him on the head when a drowner interrupted his attempt to drug me and possibly rape/sell into slavery/all of the above. But now he has amnesia, so it's fi-," Len realises he can't talk - he hyperventilates so hard - and finally shuts up. 

"Wow, that's unexpected," he squeezes out in a misguided attempt to lighten the mood. Len isn't afraid of dying or simple pain, but it seems he isn't as immune to the terror of living as he thought. 

Iorveth grinds his teeth. Len's gaze snaps up, from where he's crouching.

"Bloede dh'oine. Rotten beings should have drowned in birth," the elf mutters something else in Elder speech, low and angry, and Len is struck with a realisation. 

"Glad to give you another example of human stupidity," Len laughs a bit, pleased for the sound to come out naturally. He squares shoulders and painfully slowly crawls to his feet.

Iorveth's dark gaze snaps to Len's face and whatever he finds there seems to displease him. He opens his mouth to speak. Len interrupts him, again. 

"Listen, I love chatting with the famous Iorveth as much as the next guy, but, frankly, I had a damn long day, my head is killing me and I am in no shape to tease nekkers with my flat ass on the way…home – I know, a travesty. So," he takes a breath, "let's scurry before they come running," Len unabashedly looks the elf up and down. "I am sure you need sleep as much as I do." 

Iorveth looks like he wants to say something else but nods instead. Len wonders if frowning so hard will give him a headache too. "You can go," he waves imperiously. Len smirks.

"Thank you, Your Majesty. I'll try to live to tell the tale of your kindness and generosity," the human gives a mock bow and turns to leave, disappointed despite himself. 

He feels followed all the way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think in the comments. I am attention whore :)


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Len does the bashing, for a change.
> 
> Anezka is scheming

"Do you think he…?"

"Yes."

"But how?"

"How everything works with him? Blind luck and dogged persistence."

The whispers cut off abruptly just as Len stumbles through the door. Grey eyes narrow in suspicion only to meet confusion and wide-eyed innocence. As if they could have missed his appearance with all the racket he made. 

"It's such a lazy foreshadowing I'm not even going to waste energy rolling my eyes," Len snorts at the looks he gets in return. "No, no, don't get me wrong, gossiping is great and I'm honoured but-mMhmHmHh" 

The justified spanking of the old ladies gets rudely interrupted by a hand on his mouth. They scatter with dignity.

Cedric nods, satisfied. "That's better. Soon I will inadvertently start associating you with a headache, my friend," he lets his hand fall, ignoring human saliva coating it. Judging by his… attire, probably not the worst thing he touched today, too. 

Ew. 

Seherim smirks at the comment, stretching languidly like a big cat he is. "You wouldn't be the first."

"I usually prefer to work for it, though," Len doesn't miss a beat. 

Cedric just sighs, too hangover to participate in the passionate comedic routine.

It's been a couple of days since the whole shitshow with his trolls, mercenaries, squirrels, and poisoning, and kidnapping, and epic head-slamming, and more squirrels – the whole shitshow, he could've just stopped at that. His head feels better, no small thanks to Anezka for that. Still, even with the pain still lingering, Len has more energy than he knows what to do with. 

Nothing good ever comes from that.

"Anyway, I'm going to go grovel before breakfast. You do you, boys," he turns to leave with a flourish when a cool hand lands on his bare forearm. Len startles - hard, but recovers quickly. 

The elves' expressions grow tense and quiet in uncanny symmetry. How long they know each other, again? 

Len raises an eyebrow, expectant. "Try not to miss me too much."

"I shall endeavour to try. And if it's no trouble, could you retrieve my pipe as well?" Len could swear the elf's cheeks tinge pink. Adorable. He cackles, remembering the reason. 

No trouble, right.

"Still hiding, eh? Just apologise. It's a wonder she hasn't set your hair on fire or something."

"I am not hiding."

"You totally are," Len turns, calling over his shoulder, "chicken." 

Cedric sighs.

*****

Early mornings are his favourite time of the day – at least where Lobinden is concerned. The air is crisp and clean, not reeking of gutted fish or worse, _children_. Also, little to none people around, most of them still soundly asleep. Thankfully, Anezka's sleeping habits can rival Len's in their healthiness. Which is to say – shitty. 

Lack of people milling about makes a shadowy figure at the edge of the forest impossible to ignore. 

Len should've tried harder, and saved himself some headache. 

"Pssst. Psst."

"Your attempt at being sneaky failed abysmally. Congrats," he comes closer, anyway. "What?"

"Someone is snappier than usual," Malena replies, expertly hiding her annoyance behind a flirtatious smile. The fact that he talks to her at all is a miracle in on itself, though. "Luckily, I plan on making your morning more plea-"

"Really, Malena. Let me stop you right there," he chuckles at the sound of her teeth clicking. "I'm not joining your noble efforts in luring lustful maidens and bachelors into an ever-hungry mouth of a squirrel. No amount of _positive reinforcement_ can change my dislike for your methods," the effect of that verbose acupuncture is ruined by an indecently wide yawn. It's too early.

Malena bristles at Len's vague calling her a whore. Understandable, really. He doesn't care.

"I can understand you have some reservations, but the people here are already convinced you are a collaborator. It's only a matter of time, before someone gets a word about your frolicking with Iorveth and all that follows," she trails off meaningfully.

Len cackles, wondering if it's the right time to joke about licking and Iorveth in one sentence. The elf is probably poisonous. 

"Wow, so we're using big words now. I have some to share, too. How about _murder_ and _blackmail_ , mm?" Len takes a breath, thinking about softening his words before sending the idea to hell. "Listen, Malena, you couldn't have possibly missed the fact that I despise you. You are _revolting_. And as soon as I am able, I'll make you stop," the she-elf bares her teeth in a sneer, Len snorts. Little squirrel, he enjoys troll's company. "Don't. It's not a threat. It's a promise. One I intend to follow through. Whether or not you'll end up in prison or living a peaceful life is entirely up to you." 

Len has no delusions about his persuasiveness or law's fairness to pointy-eared bastards, but it costs him nothing to try. Nothing but nerve cells, anyway.

Malena, it seems, doesn't appreciate the effort, if the pointy end of a dagger is of any indication. It usually is.

"And _I_ promise you will regret trying to scare me," she says in an intimate whisper. Her breath smells like mint and oranges. 

Len's stomach grumbles. "Ahem. If you want to cut my throat, do yourself a favour and step farther away – for Loredo, blood stains are easy to ignore only on humans," even deaf know of his disdain for racism at this point – looks like willfully ignorant don't fall into that category. "Otherwise, go away. I am hungry," he blithely blinks at her conflicted expression. 

"…"

"So?"

The elf finally steps away, hiding her weapon so fast, Len doesn't quite catch _where_. He has his guesses.

"Remember," she breathes out, somehow managing to make it sound naturally creepy. Len just shakes his head.

"You are not easy to forget, Malena. That's your problem." 

He leaves her standing there, frowning.

******

As expected, Len is attacked straight from the door.

"Cedric sent you, didn't he?" 

He snickers.

"Good to see you too, sweetheart. Looking great."

"I always do."

"Fair."

Anezka rolls her eyes, but she is smiling now. The man counts it as a win. "Really, Len. What do you need?"

She already reaches for some pouch.

"Something from the pain," Len looks at the outstretched palm warily, "something that won't get me dropping dead for another sixteen hours."

Anezka lowers the black cloth. "Picky, picky," she rummages through the drawer, using the excuse to hide her worry. "You do need to sleep, you realise? Even for a little while. It's not like you are more productive when unable to string two words together from exhaustion," Len can practically hear her frown. "And it was the first time I remember ever witnessing the occurrence. The elves thought you were a wraith, here to haunt us – I still think that."

"I am so good, I don't need eternity to make your lives miserable. And sleeping is for the weak, anyway," he shrugs, wondering if that's what children feel when being scolded for staying up late. Some uneasy combination of annoyance and feeling loved.

"So, do you want _that_ herb or..?"

"Oi! That stings."

"Life usually does," she deadpans. Len can't hold laughter, wincing at the resulting pain.

"So, celandine? Pretty please?"

"…No one does that, Len. No one drinks tea with that shite."

"Plain tea is overappreciated. Be thankful I am not purposing to dissect a drowner – yet," Len grins mischievously. Anezka looks like she is praying for patience.

"As you say. Here, do not drink it all at once. I have no idea how you even stand the smell."

Len takes the pouch gratefully. The herbalist looks at him expectantly, visibly impatient to get her own agendas in order. 

"Well?"

Len clears his throat. "Well. I was wondering if I could relieve you of one particular elven pipe..?"

She smirks at her suspicions confirmed. "Whatever would I do with an elven pipe, Len? I trade in herbs."

"Not using it to lit fire, hopefully," Len drawls lazily. "We agree that Cedric needs to man up and apologise, but you are scary, _and_ can maim him in hand-to-hand combat – don't deny it. I know what I saw and that was infant beating. Probably all that alcoholism. And that isn't counting your _other_ talents. Can you blame him for chickening out?"

Anezka's laugh is a gentle wave, low and quiet. He always forgets just how beautiful she really is.

"You are staring."

"I am."

She huffs.

"He drives you crazy, doesn't he?"

"Seherim is ready to stab his only eye out if only that could stop Cedric's nagging," he says plainly. Anezka snorts.

"Fine, here," she pulls the object in question from her breast pouch. Keeping close to the heart, Len coos internally. "Tell him you stole it and make him run errands. That should be sufficient compensation – for now. The cheating scum will suffer," lips tilting in a positively terrifying fashion, Anezka hums contentedly. 

Len vows to never cross her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Celandine is used to brew Swallow potion, and Len knows nothing of medicine. Or tea


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cedric finds new perspective. Len finds new boot to put in his mouth.

"Your trap placements are shit," he spats, a new scratch on leather is illuminated in every excruciating detail. "The only reason I still have my feet is right here and they are _suffering_." 

Cedric looks neither apologetic nor awake. "I apologise for the inconvenience. Nevertheless, traps are practical," Len mouths _practical_ incredulously. Of course, Cedric sees. "They protect people."

"They maim people, Cedric. No one, but me and squirrels out there – and we are being _maimed_." It's true. Not many ventures far from Lobinden, and who does that usually doesn't come back - traps, or no traps. 

"They protect people from the Scoia'tael," the elf's voice takes on that gravity it usually has when he talks about his past. Which is to say almost never. "And that is practical."

Something ugly rears its head in Len's chest at the elf's purposeful desire to hurt. He's seen it often enough to recognise. "I do not care what you've seen in the future," Cedric's pale eyes snap to his. "Or what you think they've already done. I do not care," Len repeats. "And you will not set out traps like they are some game. They may call themselves after rodents but they are people, and your stooping down their level to hurt them – that's pathetic," cold eyes look unfamiliar – Len needs a couple of seconds to understand that they are focused. Seherim is notably quiet. 

"They are murdering innocent people every day," Cedric's voice is low and hard. Len feels like he is standing on the precipice. He swallows. 

"You know better than insinuating I condone murder."

"But still you are saying I should do nothing?"

"I'm saying you already protect people from monsters. You don't have to kill misguided guerrillas to do that," his voice breaks with unnamed emotion. "They are _elves_ , Cedric."

"If that is our legacy, perhaps we _should_ perish."

Seherim draws air sharply. The elf's melancholy has reached its peak. Officially.

Len's laughter is slightly manic. He is in no shape to work as a shrink. "Just when genocide was a good way of redemption?" the elf flinches. "Oh no, Cedric, you don't erase your past with more blood. You get your shit together and work through that," middle school taught him at least that. They are quiet for a while.

"You are ri-"

"Teach me to cheat in apology for having to call you on your bullshit," he interrupts, eyes gleaming. "And I will give you something my sticky fingers picked up this morning, as a treat," the heavy atmosphere finally shifts with the elf's slight smile. He understands. 

"I do not cheat."

"Bull." 

"Mind that tongue – you are speaking to your elder," Seherim sing-songs, not tearing his gaze from the firepit. Probably wondering why the hell someone would piss in one. Len bets it's the danger. 

"You are not that much younger than me, my friend," Cedric rebukes evenly. "You should demand respect for yourself as well."

"Judging by his glare, emo boy here doesn't agree. Touchy," Len mutters. 

"I have no issue with my age. Elves-"

"Comparison with fine wine only works for middle-aged women and widowers," Len interrupts lightly, not looking at him. "You are neither."

Quiet that follows is unexpected. Len almost groans. 

"Shit. I am sorry," it's a record, right here.

The elf smiles sadly and says nothing.

They don't talk about Moril.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merrin makes a repeat appearance, Len gets ideas
> 
> Cedric is just here for the ride

Usually, Len got out of questions about his scruffy appearance by trying to explain grange style - and consequently making people regret ever speaking to him. There's no way he can convince anyone that the palm-width hole baring his navel is a fashion statement. 

The endrega chirps unapologetically. 

Len throws more apples at her.

"Having fun, aren't you?" a voice calls from somewhere on his left.

Len throws an apple at him, too, masking his girlish gasp. "Feel yourself."

Merrin catches it on a dagger, somehow managing to balance on the gigantic tree with ease. Len is impressed. 

"How long were you sitting there, anyway?" 

The redhead makes a show out of biting into the fruit thoughtfully. Len rolls his eyes. "About an hour or so," he replies. "Since you knocked out an endrega with a flask. Let me applaud you, by the way – that was inspired. Never wanted to learn archery?"

Len snorts, wondering why no one ever asks how he does that. You'd think it's useful, living in Flotsam and all. "Are you offering?"

"Not my speciality, sadly. But I know a certain someone," he trails off, winking.

They look at each other in silence. Len suppresses a cough. 

"Did you just-?" 

"Offered you a great opportunity to learn a necessary survival skill which also happens to compliment your natural abilities from one of the best archers in this country? Why, yes, I did just that. No need to thank me," he rattles off, shooting Len a cocky smile. 

"-tried to set me up for archery lessons with some poor Scoia'tael, who is probably grossed out by the very race I am such a fine example of," he continues, sceptical. "What, no one pays you, so you decided to freelance? I am not that desperate, thanks."

"He didn't look grossed out," Merrin mutters, all bluster forgotten. Len has a bad feeling. "And you broke our glass pipe – it's expensive."

"Bong," Len stage-whispers, "it's called bong, young hippie." 

"What?" he just shrugs.

"Anyway, I haven't broken anything. You just dropped it, 'cause you were high."

"Obviously, we were high," Len snorts at the confused reply. Puns will never stop being amusing, even if only he understands them.

"Okay, don't pout. I feel like I just kicked a puppy. I'll get you something better, promise."

"What?"

"Yes, what could possibly be better than drugs?"

Len barely avoids toppling twenty feet below. "Seherim, for fuck's sake! Do. Not. Creep," he hisses, "absolutely no creeping allowed. Trees are creeper-free territory, k?"

"How did you..?" Merrin probably got a whiplash he startled so hard. 

"Of course," the bastard is way too amused for Len to believe him. Somewhere below Clawy starts to feast on her own poo. Len gags.

"Barth, now!"

A projectile flies from his hiding with an impressive burst of speed. Still not enough, though. Judging by the wide-eyed stare he gets the elves didn't see that coming. Len cackles.

"Is that a cauldron?" poor squirrel looks more and more perplexed by the second.

"What is going on?" 

"Training."

*****

The thing is, ever since landing here time is always on his mind.

Ciaran, Moril. Cedric.

Len's Flotsam bucket list. What's left of it, anyway. He doesn't plan further for obvious reasons. 

Having no way of warning Ciaran and be sure Leto won't just kill him outright, Len has little choice but to wait. He doesn't even _know_ the guy but every minute he expects to hear of his capture – barely alive – is torturous. Len has to constantly remind himself that no, Iorveth will not believe him, and yes, even if he does, the witcher will simply kill _everyone_. One-eyed wonder's chances of survival can't be higher than Geralt's. 

Right?

Thoughts about Moril don't ever leave him. Not with Seherim's almost constant presence. It's a great motivation to stay alive. Until he has a plan how to free her and get rid of Loredo – he just has to. Len wants to tell Cedric so badly – he would understand. 

But Cedric. Cedric is complicated. 

Speak of the devil.

"You'll get premature wrinkles if you frown so hard," Cedric threatens, poking his forehead gently. "Humans usually have a couple of years still."

"Thankfully, I don't plan on living long enough to see them," Len rebuffs habitually, teasing a smile out of the elf. Not for the first time, he wonders if gallows sense of humour is a race thing.

"Life has a way of surprising you."

"Trust me I know," he swishes one foot from the rock ledge. The view is breath-taking and not in the way he is used to – being a hereditary city dweller. 

A thought nags at his mind.

"Cedric, what you see. Is that future?"

"Sometimes," the elf answers after a long pause.

"Can it be changed? Is time malleable? From where I am from, there're so many theories on that front."

"Is fate real?" Cedric turns his face to the dark sky, eyes closed. "I don't know. It's never the same, never only one future," he continues haltingly, clearly unaccustomed to discuss it. Enforced sobriety probably doesn't help. "When they come, it's tangled yarn, not a pattern. I wish I had more clarity. I wish." 

They are quiet for a long time - until Len's kidneys start to ache. The stone is unforgivably cold. 

"Let's go see some rotfiends. My butt feels like it's about to merge with the rock," he moans getting up. If it gets any flatter he could iron clothes on it. 

The endrega's claw he got stuck to his hand makes for a good cane. He pokes Cedric with it.

A lot.

"I have a feeling the stone would not hold you for long," Cedric teases good-naturedly and stands up with grace. "Why would you even want to see those buggers?"

Len doesn't hide his frown. He doesn't know. Something about them… He shakes his head. "They are cool. And toxic. Just like me."

Cedric huffs a laugh but doesn't press further. 

"As you say. Shall we visit Barth and Bo, while we are at it?"

"Nah, they are on a… on a leave," Len shudders. He wants to wipe his mind clean from what he saw yesterday. "And do not receive clients right now. You can whine to Anezka about Seherim in the meanwhile."

"Not offering your own services?"

"I have a feeling I already have, by inviting you today," Len scratches irritated skin of his clawed arm, viciously missing simple comforts. Like a hand cream and sanitation. "Besides, my services include booze, so by all means. I planned to-"

But Cedric isn't looking at him anymore, in fact, he isn't really looking _anywhere_. Len feels a surge of adrenaline. 

Cedric bolts.

*****

"That's good. Great even, wonderful."

"Stop, until you've run out of adjectives and we just stand here, awkwardly waiting for you to remember more," Len quips at the distressed guard. The glare he gets in return is not as adoring as he hoped. Eh, can't endear everyone. "Scratch Nippy behind her ears… Do endregas even have ears?" 

"You've done it again."

"Calling it "it" while she's here is rude," he argues. "Wait until Nippy turns her back, at least." 

The elf snorts. "Whatever would I do if I hurt her feelings." 

"Pray."

"Have you finished?" the guard snaps. Len almost forgot he is even here.

"Cedric, think you could..?"

"I suppose, I found him."

They arrive at the picturesque clearing in record time - only to discover a terrified man petting endrega. Apparently, it got all clawy and nippy whenever he stopped. Len finds it adorable and Cedric giggles at odd times. The young guard – Marty – calls them dicks. 

"Don't move her, elf! She'll bite my head off," white face he sports doesn't look promising. 

"It'll be fine," Len soothes, "we have lots of experience with endregas, don't worry," to say that Marty looks unconvinced is to criminally underestimate his emotional range. "What are you doing here anyway?"

Marty's ears _flare_. "I- we were going to- erm, we were investigating the rumours of magic practitioners in the area. Documentation should be filled in case they were true. It's very important for-"

Len can't hold his laughter, Cedric just sighs, inching closer. "You were going to see if Anezka runs naked in the forest under the moonlight," the elf says with the air of resignation but what Len hears is: _"pitiful humans ruled by elusive delights of the flesh. you disgust me."_

"Don't sweat, you are not the first," Len hazards a guess.

"Really?" Marty's motions still in his surprise. The endrega rumbles. "Oi! Ahem, I mean, we weren't…"

Len ignores the attempt. "I wonder why no one thinks about the importance of the moon cycle, though. Obviously growing moon is not the best time to make sacrifices," Len doesn't really know that, but neither does Marty. And messing with the youth is always fun.

Cedric sends him a look. Len blinks innocently.

Not like Marty is going to return to the forest voluntarily after the night he had, anyway. At least Len doesn't think so. 

"Marty, when I tell you, roll away as fast as you can."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little transitional chapter before the action beginssss. Guesses?


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Len uses the quiet before the storm as productively as possible. That, unfortunately, involves getting up before noon and being mostly sober.

"How many do yer want, lad?" Berthold's friendly face is ruddy and covered in sweat from the heat. 

"Sixteen each colour." The dwarf nods, already making calculations, by the looks of it. Or plans his doom. Len is just surprised the smith hasn't kicked him out yet. "And a couple of spares – just make them look plain."

Len uses the quiet before the storm as productively as possible. That, unfortunately, involves getting up before noon and being mostly sober. 

He spends the time in Flotsam, desperately trying to fly under the proverbial radar, which is much simpler than he'd thought. The man is frankly amazed at how little people care who lurks on the streets; probably comes with being a port town, but still. It's almost like living in a megacity again (which is hilarious, considering that in Flotsam people butcher cattle in narrow passages and _hang people_ at the main square.)

Anyway, thanks to Cedric's wizened guidance he wins a free order at the smith's - after the latter brags about being unbeatable. Len cheats like a bitch, of course. 

Everything is surprisingly civil after that, but judging by the glint in Berthold's eyes, the dwarf is more intrigued, if anything. 

"Don't suppose yer'd want to make an actual order? That is, if yer've finished robbing me," the smith asks, hairy arms already picking up the tools. "Ferrin can make traps and trivia mighty well," the second dwarf – Ferrin – just continues throwing him speculative looks and keeps his distance. With an effort, Len suppresses the desire to sniff his arm-pits.

He raises an eyebrow. "Not going to offer me your own services?"

"I make weapons, and yer don't look like someone, who knows how to handle a sword," his eyes dance. 

"I don't need pointy things to do what I do. And do well."

"Yer see, lad, now I am quite curious what is it that yer do, and do well."

"I live to intrigue." 

"Oh, that's it. Go away, I am busy," Berthold shoos him with a sour look. 

Len shuffles off to the tailor, searching for something reasonably priced and durable – with his lifestyle, nothing save for leather jerkin would survive long enough. 

Honestly, Len likes good clothes – but the reason he's here is not something he expected. At one point he bickers with the brothel workers, who think he tries to one-up them with the _selectively cut clothes_. In short, they think he looks like a man-whore. Len thinks back at all the thinly veiled propositions, then, and kind of sees their point. So. No to practical crop tops. A pity – the man has a pretty navel. 

Len idly wonders if the disappearance of the strip of skin will affect his ability to gather information. He heads to the tavern, not missing the approving look from Margot – Len shoots her a wink. She is a nice woman, if occasionally places hits on people. 

The screech of a badly-oiled door is lost in the people-noise. Considering that he hasn't stopped by until after Dmitri and his men left, he gets an unexpectedly warm welcome. Literally. 

Steaming kettle flies at his face.

*****

"Get that, asshole!" 

"Jesus fuck! I don't even know you, lady," Len grits out, standing on his fours. His head spins – again. What is it with hitting him on the head? At this pace he'll be a vegetable long before getting to flip off Loredo. "This world fucking _hates_ me."

"You are- you are not _him_ ," comes a confused reply. The tavern is quieter than it's ever been in its working hours. Someone snorts. "Oh. You- you probably deserved it, anyway," she continues shakily.

Len groans. "Charming, though not exactly what you say after accidentally smacking someone with a _fucking kettle_ ," her pretty face reddens, eyes getting wet. 

Len stares at her incredulously. 

"Whatever," he gets up. The floor is not exactly what you'd call clean. 

"It's fine. I'm fine. You won't get sued or hanged or whatever passes for a lawsuit in this shithole, don't worry," the girl tries to look confident failing spectacularly. She _is_ young. "For the future, I recommend looking first, hitting later – or just hitting harder. Could've been Loredo for all you knew." 

The girl's lower lip trembles and she ducks her head to hide it, dirty blond curls bobbing.

"Good thing it was you, then," she mutters stubbornly. 

Len snorts and limps away with dignity – almost missing quiet _sorry_ in the newly picked up noises. He just nods. Not exactly something new.

"Thanks for not making it messy," a barman says gruffly when Len drops on a stool by the bar – has no choice, really. Len's seen him there on his first visit, but not much after that. He looks…well, he looks awful.

"Don't like dealing with guards?" he guesses quietly, palming his burning cheek. The girl's aim may suck, but it was heavy burning metal. He hopes there will be no burn scars. "Attentions of officials are never good for business."

The man surreptitiously looks around. "Careful who you talk to about things like that."

"Careful who you warn," Len replies, mouth twitching. 

"Joseph."

"Len."

"Seeing what you advised the girl, Len, somehow I don't think you are going to make my life harder," Joseph says with an answering smirk. Len suppresses the urge to facepalm. So much for keeping a low profile. 

"Think you could make mine easier, then?"

"Depends on what keeps you from doing it yourself," comes a cautious reply. Huh.

He shrugs nonchalantly. "News can be tough to come by around here. What's going on?"

"Besides some assassin going on a killing spree for monarchs?" Jo asks raising an eyebrow. 

Len smiles. "Even I heard of that. I am more interested in what's happening closer."

"Like where?"

"Flotsam."

*****

Len supposes it's only natural for his surprisingly successful day to end in a pit, both literal and metaphorical. That's just how his life is, really. Gotta keep things interesting. 

At least that's what he tells himself after being chased into a fisstech factory through a hidden entrance by vengeful children. When Len finds out who sic them at him, there will be _mayhem_. 

He sneezes.

"I'm going to pass out right here. Blissful until big Mama Loredo comes and eats my eyeballs out," he covers his face with the ripped Rolling Stones shirt, but it doesn't make much of a difference when covered in powder from head to toe. He feels _valuable_. 

"Why does no one store booze at every corner in real life?" Len asks dark cave ceiling. The image swims lightly in response. It must have been about an hour now, and his eyes ache from straining for so long. 

He isn't worried, though. Knowing people here, sooner or later he's bound to stumble upon some alcoholic's stash and then he'll be out of here in a second. Barring getting stuck in a rock and dying a slow and painful death from a)suffocation or b)dehydration, of course. 

Okay, maybe he is worried, a little bit.

"…here…said it would be", a new voice echoes through the cave. "Quick about…want it."

Len smashes his face into the fabric to muffle his giggles. "Just my luck."

As voices grow louder, he ducks into the darkest space – which happens to be two feet corner between stalagmites and well, _nothing_. Something clinks at his leg. 

The bottle is almost empty but what's inside is – probably – alcohol. It smells of herbs, too. Len lets out a quiet triumphing sound and gleefully gulps it down.

It tastes like floor polish. 

Then Len _jumps_.

*****

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"That's a pretty short list, Len." The human salutes him with a bottle, conceding the point. 

Splashing is clearly heard from their spot - someone in the port falls into the water, again. Clumsy fuckers. Hopefully, local Cthulhu will not come out to play. 

"In any case, I have to go, as you colourfully put it, grovel. Want me to help you down before I head out?" Cedric teases him lightly.

Len huffs dangling his gangly limbs from the branch. "I think I can manage. The tree isn't that tall."

"As you say," Cedric replies easily, probably remembering the last time he said that. 

Len turns his gaze towards the ground, not looking at the retreating elf. He lied, really. The tree _is_ that tall. The giants in this forest look like they've been hand-fed steroids or something.

"We have to stop meeting like this," he hiccups drunkenly, not turning his head, "or I'll get a heart attack long before my time."

"I make your heart clench, don I? And we know each other so little…" Merrin replies instantly, landing beside the human soundlessly. The cheeky bastard.

"Like when I look at a drowner."

"Pfft. Are you always able to tell who it is, then, or am I special?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Len knows he would. Ever since crash landing here, he just _senses_ things. In particular circumstances. 

He briefly considers just staying drunk – not like it'll bring him more trouble than while he's sober. 

"Answering the question with a question. So rude."

Len snorts. "That's what they taught you in the etiquette school for young and promising ladies? Besides, I haven't pushed you off the tree – yet. Be thankful." 

The elf huffs a laugh. "Beg your pardon, my lord, for any offence I've caused."

Len makes a dismissing gesture, smirking openly. "I have something for you." 

That gives the elf a pause.

"…you do?"

"Here you go."

Len isn't sure chess would be the first choice in entertainment after weed, but it's free and he isn't buying them bong. 

"Is that- is that some game?"

"Bravo, Sherlock. It's called chess," he opens the case to pull two pieces of different colours. "For two players. Good for perfecting tactics and keeping yourself entertained while not, you know, high," he can't quite stifle the disapproving note. Merrin ignores it, eyes gliding on the gentle curves of the small stone figurines.

"What are the rules?"

Len loves chess as much as he loves heights, though the former doesn't terrify him witless. Orderly and liberating. He explains the rules, enjoying the easy flow of conversation. 

It's been a long week. Between what he lovingly calls preparations and rediscovered exhaustion, he feels drained of life. Also, still hangover from the fisstech debacle. Getting out of that cave was easy – explaining why he turned into a giggling mess to every Lobinden villager who happened to literally stumble upon him, on the other hand… Len thinks he convinced a good half of them that he's in love with a Kraken. Eh.

The overall state of attrition is probably the reason why, at first, he doesn't connect a pleasant sound of lute with implications. 

"Shit." 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He _is_ surprised to be alive, and with each meeting, the feeling only grows.

All he hears is wind and his own heartbeat and is left guessing what exactly is said by their expressions and body language alone. A real pleasure with the witcher.

Still, going by the indignantly thoughtful expression of one-eyed wonder, Geralt calls him on his bullshit. 

Squirrels in the bushes seem to sense the chemistry as well, and stare on, enraptured. 

Roche, peeved by the lack of attention, does what every child does at least once – but with a knife. The only thing that stops Len from slow clapping for that outstanding move is 15 feet between him and leaf-clad ground. 

"You are in their forest, idiot."  
Iorveth, unsurprisingly, does not approve of the treatment. 

Everything is as expected, really. He still can't hold his groan when the sorceress decides to show off. The degree of stupidity does not decrease with distance. Who _taught_ her, honestly? 

There're so many elves.

"That's right, why not deplete your magical reserves on bloody butterflies," he mutters, "especially when you've spent the whole night basically stitching badly mutilated flesh together with your fucking mind? Jesus."

"Bloede-"

Len watches the spectacular display of tactical planning and even better execution, as the whole merry company moves in his direction. Namely – they make Geralt fight. The tree he's slowly climbing down provides a perfect view. 

Watching the witcher fight is better than a movie or a hot bath. His movements fluid with decades of experience, sharp steel swings with one purpose – to incapacitate. The effect is somewhat ruined by his favourite elves being on the receiving end of that masterful technique, though. 

He doesn't see the moment everything goes pear-shaped. Next time he turns his attention from climbing, Triss' barrier is flickering wildly – which, Len's pretty sure, isn't supposed to happen - and he is practically on top of their aggressive followers.

"Shitshitshit," he chants the mantra, moving faster. The whole gig is rolling closer to him by the second, but the limp form of Triss seem to be losing the last dregs of consciousness even faster. 

The last few feet Len just jumps, wasting a second to thank army for teaching him how to fall correctly before suing him. He softens the impact with a roll – and some unwilling pillow. 

If pillows were misanthropic edge lords. 

Squirrels around them gasp. "Iorveth!"

As if he is in serious danger of injury. The closest elves turn their attention from their now useless bows to a new irritant, while others continue to hop off the comfortable cliff with energy and zeal clearly harmful to their continued well-being. 

Something sharp tickles his liver even before the confusion is fully gone from the green eye. Merits of being hunted for decades, Len supposes.

He cackles, ignoring familiar faces now pointing arrows at his behind. "Is this a knife, or are you just happy to see me?" 

"I'd like to see the day dh'oine survives my warm welcomes," the elf drawls in the same tone, obviously not getting the joke. It's mutilated anyway.

Remembering Saskia, Len snorts. "It seems you are closer to get your wish by the minu- ah! Stop it, I am ticklish."

Iorveth narrows his eye before apparently surrendering to fate. From this close, the scar is visible in every painful detail. 

Len has an unreasonable desire to lick it – if only to mess with the elf – but instead, he rolls off the mistreated squirrel, offering a hand up. While he doesn't look it, Len is ridiculously heavy.

The elf gets up with ease. And without help. 

Len huffs. 

Clearing his throat Iorveth looks around. Len is pretty sure he was perfectly aware of everything going on while they were resting on the soft grass. "Scoia'tael!" they stand at attention, momentary confusion forgotten. Len meets an amused gaze of Merrin with a dip of his head. "Aecáemm aen port!" the main squirrel yells over the sounds of steel clashing. Len winces knowing the witcher and co move too damn slowly. They've barely even started, honestly. What the hell.

Fuck it. He hoped it wouldn't come to that. 

"Ahem, Iorveth," everyone ignores him. Len does _not_ think where Merrin is, and jabs a finger into Iorveth's arm – or tries to, anyway. 

"Put that hand down if you value your fingers."

"I do. You'd be surprised how useful they are," the man winks playfully but sobers up in the next moment, now having the attention. He continues lowly, only for one set of pointy ears – and with the default amount of tact – which is none. "Listen, I know you don't like blue, but could you stop sending your men to be maimed maybe?" 

The elf seems to not appreciate the concern, however. Scarred face tightens in anger.

"Scoia'tael-"

"No," Len shakes his head so fast he's dizzy. Dandelion had better write a flattering ballad after his undoubtedly gruesome death. "Geralt is a witcher – you know what they can do - and now he isn't even _trying_ to hurt them too much. But the squirrels. How many managed to strike him and how many are injured. Doesn't seem like an equal trade. I'm betting you don't even have enough supplies to treat all the lacerations, and some are-," he interrupts his own rattling, uncomfortable with the emotion forcing its way out of his throat. "Your reputation as a terroristic bunch is safe and-"

Len's sharply yanked forward by the neck.

"I am perfectly aware of our _reputation_ among your kind," Iorveth hisses out like one would say "vermin", warm breath on his face, "and _you_ should be grateful to even be alive." Len swallows heavily. He _is_ surprised to be alive, and with each meeting, the feeling only grows. 

It's the first time he notices how loud the forest is, whispering, almost singing at the promise of blood. He shudders. 

Iorveth, of course, misinterprets it. His lips curl into a cruel smirk.

"Your people deserve more than for their lives to be squan- dered," Len wheezes out, not having much left but that awful disappointment and ugly sadness. Not much air, too.

He hasn't looked away once – which is something you usually do when held by the throat – and that's the only reason he sees the blow land. 

In fact, it's the last thing Len sees. 

******  
"Don't stare at me like that. I just didn't want him dead," Merrin's voice rasps.

"I doubt he was in real danger, regardless."

"The handprint on his neck says otherwise."

"If Iorveth wanted to kill him, he wouldn't listen to him for so long."

"And in the middle of battle too!"

"Rin, there was Roche, you understand?"

"I don't think any of us does."

"…"

"As fascinating as it is to hear you speculate… Where is this bag even from? My head spi-" Len sniffs the air suspiciously. "Oh no, don't tell me that's where you store your weed, asshole."

"Way to rat me out, Len."

He snorts. "You think there's at least one squirrel who doesn't know, much less Iorveth?"

"I didn't know!"

"Shut up, Neal. No one believes you."

"Rude."

"Rolled eyes lose their dramatic effect when hidden by a fucking bag, Merrin."

"Then maybe you should keep it on always? If we are lucky, you'll fall asleep every time it's on."

"He's not a bird, though. It won't work."

"No, you are right. It's more of a-"

"My head doesn't feel like I've hit a rock," Len interrupts, raised eyebrow hidden by the thick cloth.

"That's because you didn't," the elf's – Neal's – voice pitches in enigmatically.

"Wh-"

With an ungentle tug, the bag is off. "Oh. I so hate sunshine."

"Scoia'tael, return to the camp."

"Iorveth-"

"Return to the camp," Iorveth grits out. 

Merrin sends him a mildly rebellious look but obeys. This kid, honestly. 

Len clears his throat. 

"The ropes are really unnecessary. And the bag smells funny," he rasps out. "You could've just asked nicely."

"It never worked before."

"Maybe it wasn't the right kind of nice, then?" he laughs a bit at his expression. "How long was I out?"

"Enough to give us all a glimpse of blissful silence and not a second more."

"You should've squeezed harder, then." Judging by the elf's expression, he regrets not doing so. 

"Next time I will."

"I'd give you the first place in the ever-growing line if you wanted," he hesitates, "Are they...?"

"In Flotsam. Likely being offered a contract for my head," even knowing he's right Len has an urge to wipe that arrogant smirk off his face. Instead, he smiles.

"Anyway. If you are planning to go stand on the cliff all dramatic and victorious – go ahead, I have some real things to do," he doesn't. 

Finally, the abominable sunshine disappears, hidden by a large shadow. Len is not grateful.

"Not so fast, little bee."

*****

Roche is impatient to get out of the open. No wonder, too, after the near-miss they've just had. "What is it, witcher?"

"I don't know."

"Do you recognize him?" Triss wonders aloud, still wobbly on her feet. After so many years, keeping his face neutral is too easy.

The pit in his stomach grows.

"I do not remember," cat eyes narrow as he cocks his head. "He seems- familiar. But there's something else." 

When they meet, Dandelion is as verbose as ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aecáemm aen port - pursue until the port
> 
> \--  
> What _does_ Letho know?  
> Hehe
> 
> \--  
> Thanks everyone for reading, commenting and leaving your love! Hope you are having time as good as I do ;)


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Letho being an intrusive ass. Low-key power struggle insures.

"Well, if you're done building up the suspense," Len drawls after the continued silence, "then please, I prefer to look at people who try to intimidate me." 

There's a huff from above, and a mountain of muscle hits the foliage with surprisingly little noise. Letho moves with precision and practised grace that almost seems predatory, and crosses the distance between them too fast for comfort.

"If you are finished," Iorveth all but rolls his eye at the entry – probably worried his dramatic flair could be outmatched one day.

"Always so hospitable," the witcher shakes his head in disappointment, before turning his attention to Len. In Dimitri's scalp, you could see your reflection, Letho's short little spikes of hair could be weaponised.

He sniffs the air.

"And so, the tales are true. Witchers do drink blood of unsuspecting victims," the elf pitches in derisively. The change in his bearing is small, but apparent.

"Only if freely offered," Letho dismisses casually. 

"Then I am fairly safe." 

"You see, lil' bee, that's where you are wrong. You are never safe."

"The scariest part of that is you not knowing how to pronounce 'little'," Len mocks in response. He couldn't be bothered to hide the disdain colouring his words. 

Iorveth looks mildly surprised by the instant dislike and largely reluctant to have a part in this. 

"You are not what I expected," Letho cocks his head enquiringly, eyes gleaming with disconcerting intelligence otherwise unexpected on the face of a brute.

"Your expectations must have been pretty unflattering."

"Or too high," Iorveth mutters. 

"Sexual tension here is suffocating," Len matches his tone, but much _much_ quieter. 

"Perhaps," Letho drawls in contemplation – making Len wonder which question he is answering. 

The witcher leans in. Suddenly so close to yellowish eyes, the human can't help but stare. His mind conjures up a picture of seething snakes, hidden from the view. "Who are you, human?"

Len vaguely hopes that Letho isn't a spitting one. 

"Wouldn't tell you much, now, would it?" he coughs out, amused despite the situation. If only they knew. "A more relevant question would be what I am not."

Snake eyes narrow in brief evaluation – and that's it. Shouldn't be a surprise, really. Len can't very well lie to a witcher, they all know it. "And what would it be?"

"A threat," he says easily. Really, Len is more of a threat to himself, if you consider all the times he almost fell into a nekker pit. "So, you might as well come along and-"

"Enough," Iorveth grits out impatiently. "Letho," pointedly not looking in Len's direction.

Letho finally tears his gaze away and turns his attention to Iorveth; what minute expressions he allowed himself to show – and Len has no doubt that was the case – now safely stored away. Iorveth tenses at the movement - almost imperceptively, seemingly ready for anything. 

Len wonders if it's because of what he said at the baths or just mundane, if famed, paranoia. 

_Probably the latter._

The glorified babysitters exchange loaded stares, leaving bemused Len with no clues as to decipher their expressions. 

Letho harrumphs. "I will find you after sunset, elf," the witcher throws over his shoulder, and with one last inscrutable look at Len, dissolves in the forest shades. 

The silence that falls after the tense exchange is hard to ignore. Len squirms.

Iorveth levels an unflinching gaze on him.

Damn it. He needs to get to Flotsam, and soon. With Geralt in town, who knows how fast the events will unfold. Maybe the witcher is not the obsessive task-master, Len prides himself to be but there were not _that_ many contracts – and one less now. 

"So, now that you got me all alone…?" Len drawls, returning the intense eye contact. In conversations he never knows which eye to look in; it's so much easier when he doesn't have a choice.

Iorveth blinks.

"I have a bad feeling. What could it-" 

"Ciaran is dead."

The smirk literally falls off Len's face. It would have been comedic, if not for the circumstances.

" _Fuck_. When? Did you see the body?" 

It's almost like a timeline is the right one, but everything moves too fast anyway. His mind jumps into overdrive.

"His squad missed their check-in two days ago," said in a matter-of-fact voice. Len resists the urge to shake him. Even the fact that he is answering the questions should be alarming. 

"Yeah, okay, that's still fine, that's good," Len mutters, starting to pace. "I need, I need everything you have for stab wounds, severe lacerations and blood loss. And I mean that," he ignores the suspicious glare. "Elfish physic should differ from human, but I haven't heard of anythi- hm, need something more potent and-"

Leather gloves squeak as Iorveth physically stops him in the middle of the sentence. "What. Do. You. Know," the elf demands, and Len curses himself for not saying before. Sometimes he forgets everyone around him is real functioning beings, with feelings, not just a combination of pixels. Well, the growing bruises on his biceps go a long way of reminding him about that.

"He is alive," he replies simply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *crashing through the door* MISSED ME?


	19. Chapter 19

If Len was asked to admit the most embarrassing guilty pleasure he indulged in, it would be reading crappy magazines about psychology. Sometimes he even wished his ex would take a page of that particular book because the articles there were hilarious - even more so because they weren't meant to be. Better than Michael's pitiful attempts at humour, that's for sure. 

But something must have been right in there because they cautioned against abruptly breaking news that was sure to elicit an emotional response from highly volatile individuals. 

_And Iorveth is nothing if not volatile,_ Len thinks unkindly, expecting his windpipe to be crushed any minute now.

That's not exactly what happens.

Instead of wringing fragile human neck, Iorveth just- freezes, his frantic expression shattering once again. It is as fascinating as it is disconcerting to witness – all emotions save for uncanny focus wiped clean. 

Snap and gone. 

Not for the first time, Len wonders how old Iorveth is. 

The elf lets his gloved hands fall and steps away. Len rubs the bruised place, wincing. "You expect me to believe you?" 

"No," he feels something tug at his insides at the even voice, "I just need herbs." 

Len doesn't think about his elves. He needs them safe.

The hare-brained plan that's slowly coming together in his mind will require more than just herbs, but Len isn't about to ask Iorveth to cause a distraction. He would probably shoot somebody. 

The elf regards him thoughtfully, and Len just-

"I don't have the fucking time for your shit," he snaps in frustration. He whips around and stomps away, awareness of traps that are still littering the forest floor a constant buzz at the back of his head. 

He finds a bundle of what he nostalgically names 'first aid kit' on his bed.

******

"Living is so much more difficult when you have something to live for", he laments under his breath, climbing huge cases. It wasn't that long ago that he decided to just live one day at a time, and not think long-term. Not at the least because there _is_ no long-term for him. Cancer, eating away at his lungs made sure of that. But now he has goals to complete before he kicks the bucket. 

The thought doesn't sting anymore, it's just a fact. And something about being far from his city, from his world even, makes it easier to draw breath. If no less painful. 

Len shakes his head to clear it. Loredo's guards seem as oblivious as ever, in high spirits or just high on fisstech - which is more likely, to be fair. 

It's not surprising Iorveth hasn't attacked Flotsam, really – not like it poses any real threat to skilled scouts and saboteurs. 

It's a bit pathetic if Len's being honest. 

Especially considering that he just finished casing the place, having enough time to scratch his notes on a piece of paper Anezka so generously provided. And he hasn't been spotted once. Well, there were a couple of close calls that he doesn't count. 

The point is, however, not in Len's survival skills - or lack thereof. The point is, he now knows the layout of the place and the patrol timeframes. For the first time, he feels like he might actually pull it off. 

"Did you say something or was that just a fart?"

"Are yer quoting yer mom?"

Not for the first time his safety hinges on fart jokes. Typical. 

"Fuck off!" 

The uneven surface of the crates scrapes against his palms as he shuffles to the side and away to avoid being spotted. While his position allows to hide in plain sight, wrapped in shadow it is far from reliable, not to mention comfortable – it would take one close look to detect him.

As if answering his thoughts, wooden planks overhead shudder under the uneven gait of the guards. Only two of them. Len sneaks a peek in the gap to check on their location and almost swears as the setting sun hits him in the eyes with vengeance. 

Feeling vaguely like a thief – and momentarily blinded, the man swings his gangly limbs to land on the lowest crate and immediately crouches, climbing down in one smooth motion. At least he thinks it was smooth. Luckily, there's no audience to disabuse him of that notion. Or see him stumble on an empty bottle afterwards.

"What are you doing here, mate?" an amused voice chimes in. 

Len doesn't shriek. He just startles horribly and turns very _very_ slowly.

Len doesn't shriek but it's a near thing. 

The guard scans him for weapons with practised ease, lifting a scarred eyebrow when he finds none. It's surprising that he even has eyebrows, Len thinks. His whole face and neck - as far as Len can see - are covered with painfully looking, if mostly healed, burn scars. As if he played firefighter without any protection. Len winces sympathetically and meets the guard's eyes at last. 

"I asked you," he reiterates carefully as if talking to a particularly slow child, "what are you doing here?" 

Something feels off about the whole scene, though he can't quite put his finger on why. Maybe the way the guard is completely unselfconscious.

"Well, you know, just taking a stroll. It's a perfect day for it, too - pretty like a picture. Birds are singing, the pleasant aroma of rot, piss and vomit is in the air…" he coughs abruptly. "But what _you_ doing here?"

The guard's expression is curiously blank. Len's eyes flit around his face, searching for any sign that he is going to be skewered on a pointy end of the sword. Under a mass of scars the guy has a really nice jawline, and incredible bone structure, Len notes. His cheekbones are – quoting the top-notch romance novels – sharp enough to cut. What? Len can appreciate a good face when he sees one. In a momentary distraction, he can practically hear his brother teasing. His head spins a bit. 

"When you put it this way, it does sound lovely indeed," he drawls wryly and it strikes Len that the reason he thought something was off is the glimmer of intelligence none of Loredo's guards seems to possess. Perhaps intentionally. "Perhaps, as a continuation of that wonderful day you would like to accompany me to a dimly-lit dungeon, and tell me the real reason you are here?" he threatens with the same air of wry amusement but doesn't move, keeping one hand on the hilt of the sword. 

The absence of malice in his voice does nothing to reassure Len. That is the man in full control of the situation – or someone who thinks he is, at least.

"Aww, is it just me or it's getting hot in here? Inviting me on a date and I don't even know your name," he coos, winking obnoxiously.

"Then we are on even ground, friend," the guard shrugs nonchalantly, seemingly content to continue that almost lazy exchange. And ignore Len's stupid, well, you know, _stupid_. "So, what will it be?"

Len rolls his eyes. "Len. My name is Len."

The guard smirks, smug.

"Kreas. So very pleased to make your acquaintance," he doesn't offer to shake hands, thankfully. This is getting more and more bizarre as it is. They are for all intents and purposes having a friendly chat, while anyone could stumble upon them and _cut Len to ribbons_.

"You look not a complete idiot; how did you get Loredo to hire you?"

"He didn't."

"Excuse me?"

"I said he didn't. You might want to visit a healer, check that hearing," Kreas replies cheekily. 

Although it's somewhat hard to tell, he looks young, maybe a bit older than Len. His eyes, though, are the eyes of someone who saw and did too much. 

"My hearing is good enough to call you on your bullshit."

"See, that's where you're wrong, sunshine."

"Yeah, so what are you saying you are a sp- oh my god, you _are_ a spy."

Kreas is silent.

"Jesus. I fucking _love_ politics," he groans. Just his luck stumbling upon the fucking spy. He would probably have to dispose of Len – oh shit, is it why he told him who he was – well, yes, he didn't say that exactly but what he did is give Len the reason to be more suspicious than is healthy. Ah, nothing for it. "Demavend? No, dead. Henselt. Oh, it's fucking Henselt, isn’t it?" Len mutters under his breath angrily, before shaking his head. "No, that can't be right. Loredo is pretty much eating from his hand as it is – unless I am getting something wrong – so what- who could it be? Ah, shit, everyone. Fucking Flotsam," Len looks up at Kreas, who wears an almost fond expression, not at all fazed by Len's rant. Instead, his blue eyes stare at him encouragingly. Len is going to die. Something is nagging at- wait a second. "With Dmitri out of the picture Thaler's spy would probably survive. Jesus. That was easy."  


Len feels– somewhat relieved. He likes Thaler. Thaler is good if a ruthless and cold-hearted sonofabitch. But no one is perfect. "How's that geezer doing, by the way?"

Kreas tilts his head to the side, like a curious bird. 

A carnivorous bird stalking its prey, Len amends after a second. 

"I wouldn't know." For a sharp breathless second, Len feels suspended in the air. The phantom of a rope curls around his neck, stifling. He remembers reading that usually, you break your neck – quick, painless, but if you don't, you hang there for a while longer, suffocating – feet kicking in the air. He cannot afford to die now. He hates it, the weight of unspoken and unasked for promises is equally grounding and oppressing. "But when I left he was alive." 

Len lets out a tired sigh, exponentially relieved. What's wrong with him today? There's a clang of metal but Kreas doesn’t turn, doesn't as much as flinch. Perfectly at ease. Len wishes he could be that calm. 

"As amusing it is to watch you squirm," Kreas drawls, ignoring Len's indignation, "I actually have work to do."

"Well, don't let me keep you from it. Wouldn't want to make anyone suspicious, huh?" 

"You are not threatening me, are you?"

"Wouldn't dream of it, pal. We are in the same boat – or prison barge, as it goes. Also, I and Loredo are not exactly friends, so," he replies with a huff. 

"And here I thought my charms took effect," the spy almost pouts, looking away. Len chokes on air. "Well, I'll take what I can."

Len doesn't look at him anymore, though. The momentary fluster forgotten, his eyes are glued to nearby crates. Or, more specifically, to the witcher climbing them. It doesn't look like he noticed them or thinks their chat suspicious. Most likely too engrossed in eavesdropping to care. With the full yard of guards, he is lucky no one thought to look up. 

Though- it _is_ strange.

"Yeah, um, you do that," Len answers distractedly. 

Kreas snorts and turns away. Len wonders how he survived until now with that disregard of who knows his secret. Idiot. He didn't ask for any assurances, proof that Len is not about to go and sell his identity to Loredo or anyone, really. 

He must be young, Len thinks uncharitably. Especially considering that he got away unscathed.

"Wait."

Kreas' shoulders tense. "Hmm? You are not going to give me a kiss goodbye, are you?"

"No, but I will give you something actually useful. Advice," Len sounds tired even to his own ears, cursing himself. "Next time you see someone sneaking about I wouldn't recommend revealing your identity in the first five minutes or casting suspicion on yourself or in any way sabotaging your fucking life," Len coughs out the last part, wiping his hand on pants. "Also, someone placed a hit on you," he adds as an afterthought.

Kreas looks- he actually looks thoughtful. A bit derisive, a touch indignant. His reply is cut off by the planks overhead protesting the weight of a guard. They shouldn't be able to see or hear them. But not everyone picked a convenient spot to do their spying. 

Len swallows and checks Geralt's position. "Shit."

They are going to see him soon.

"You don’t need to cite professional discretion to me, buttercup. I know it well enough," Kreas states calmly and for some reason Len believes him. "I had a good feeling about you, that's all. And the fact that you saw fit to lecture me on my own safety – is not only adorable but telling. But if you want me to correct the breach in protocol," he trails off, smirking. It is obviously a joke. 

Right? 

"In any case," he continues, turning around, "thank you for the information. See you around, sunshine!"

And with that, he is gone. 

Fucking Christ. 

"Geralt."


End file.
